


Sea Beat

by orphan_account



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: AND SHENANIGANS, And Podsy and Mimikyu are tired of your shit, Cuddles, Eating out, F/M, Guzma's got a tongue ring, I'm Sorry, Moon is 21+, PWP, Soft Guzma, There is tickling involved, This turned into fluff, sort of, they do the do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A quiet night in. Also a tickle war.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I can't tag save me.
> 
> Moon is 21+. Yep.
> 
> Also, this is sort of attached to Broken Bones but also not really? Similar universe I guess? Anyway yeah I wanted to write some porn but I'm bad at porn so it got sort of snuggly sorry.

You can hear it in the distance. The soft hush-rush, the heartbeat of the sea. Stars speckle the sky like too many freckles. Or holes in a blanket you’ve pulled over your head. It smells like Ocean, like salt and sand and sun-baked beaches.

And cologne.

You’re warm.  _ He’s _ warm. You hum, looking out the open window with tired eyes. You probably should have been asleep hours ago. You have to get up early, there’s a new challenger scheduled to take you on in the morning, and another that afternoon. You’ve yet to lose your seat as Champion and...you don’t intend to. You’re paid, not extravagant but it’s a good amount. Got you a nice little house built on a hillside just west of the base of the mountain. Easy to-and-from the League.

You made sure you had big windows. Most of the time you left them open, the sea breeze something soothing. Moving here had been the best thing to ever happen to you--you wanted Alola in your life. Even at home.

There’s a sigh and he moves a little, drawing your attention. You’ve taken up residence on half of Guzma’s chest, leaving him one arm free. He had his Dex out, scrolling through news feeds or emails or something. His other hand was busy in your hair, absently drawing it out to length before letting it fall quietly against the sheets--then repeating.

He stays with you sometimes. You stay with him in Po sometimes. You’re both busy, but you make time for each other. So much has changed.

“What’s the sigh for?”

“Didn’t sigh,” he didn’t looked at you, clicking a link. You  _ think _ its a gif of a dancing Meowth but you can’t quite well at this angle.

“You absolutely sighed.”

“I absolutely did not do nothing,” he tipped his head to look at you, one brow up. “Chill.”

“Did you just tell me to chill?”

He seems to realize his mistake and casually tries to put space between the two of you. “No.”

“I think you did.”

“No--Moon--”

“I think you did,” You grin and launch your attack. His desk clatters to the floor and he skreeches as you attach, fingers moving rapidly against his naked sides. You reduce him from Head of Battle Manor to a flailing mass of limbs and inhuman squeaky noises in moments, barely drowning out your laughter.

“Moon!”

“It’s ya boy Guzma!” You shout, scrambling to crawl on top of him. You’re not very big, and he is  _ very big _ , but somehow you manage to get in a position he can’t seem to throw you off. “Comin’ atcha! The most ticklish boss in all Alola!”

This goes on for a few minutes before he manages to get a lucky strike in--gets you right under your knee. You squawk like Tucannon and fall off the bed in a heap. 

“Cheap shot!”

“Oh now you’re gunna get it, girly.” He grins, all mischief, and you scramble to your feet before he can grab you. This leads to a chase. You dash, laughing, out the bedroom door and into the open living area. Your Mimikyu, Precious, is floating above the coffee table and watching some show on mute. Golisopod is sitting on your couch, either asleep or just relaxing--it’s hard to tell. It doesn’t have eyelids.

You made a mad dash around the couch. Guzma makes for the couch itself. Aparently Podsy is awake, because it leans out of his way. Guzma vaults over the couch--curse his tallness--which cuts the distance between you in half. 

“Not fair!”

“Don’t play fair, babygirl!” 

He manages to pin you in the kitchen in the corner of the counter. You squeal, scrambling against him in an attempt to get back to his sensitive ribs. The lucky bastard can keep his arms tucked in and  _ still _ reach your ribs, which is still totally unfair.

“Tell me you give,” He growls, all smiles against your ear. You cackle, helpless, and try to scramble away. “I wanna hear it.”

“Never!”

“ ‘I, the Champ of Alola--’ hey now--” He wiggles away when you nearly get at him again. “ ‘I, Champ of Alola, lose to Guzma. I am a loser. He is the best.”

“You’ll never take me alive! Precious, help me!”

Precious glances back at the kitchen only momentarily before returning to the TV. 

“Traitor!”

“Say it!”

“Okay okay! You win! I lose, Guzma’s the best!”

“Damn right I am,” His grin is smug. You, after so much scrambling, sit on the kitchen counter and pant for breath. He barely broke a sweat, the asshole.

“That is  _ so _ not fair. You’re like eight million feet tall.”

“Eight million, geez, I grew a few inches.” You swat him in the chest and he laughs, catching your hands. “Oh come on, babygirl. You know you like it.” You can’t help but flush and pout. “You had a thing for me since our first little fight.”

“Someone’s cocky.”

“I could tell. I got a  _ thing _ .” He makes a wave motion with one hand. “With the ladies.”

“Oh my Arceus, please stop.” You roll your eyes and he laughs again, leans in, smiles against your neck. ”What, at Malie Garden? You think that display made me swoon?”

“I made an example of ya.” He presses a little series of kisses up your neck to the soft spot behind your ear. It makes you shiver. With a shift, he settles between your knees and rests his massive hands on your hips. “Had to show that dunce Kukui his little pet project was a flop.”

“I distinctly remember beating you,” When he nips at your ear your close your eyes, your hands ease into his hair. Despite it being a ridiculous mess, it’s always so impossibly soft. “And you freaking out.”

“Didn’t freak out,” he mumbles, tugs gently at your ear with his teeth. “Stop arguin’, I’m busy.”

“Ain’t arguing.”

“Ha,” he lets your ear go to come and rest his forehead against yours. When you open your eyes, he’s still smiling-albeit a little softer. “Starting to sound like me.”

“Arceus help me.”

With a snort he scoops you up, hands under your thighs for support, and starts back towards the bedroom. You go bright red and immediately wind your arms and legs around him like an Octillary. It’s like you weigh nothing to him--he does this all the time. Picks you up, carries you around. You like it.

You don’t  _ admit _ it. But you like it. And you’re pretty sure he knows anyway.

When he drops you onto the bed, you bounce once with a huff. He leans back to knock the door shut before crawling onto the bed after you. “Come’er.”

“Ask  _ nicely _ ,” You inch towards the wall and he huffs at you, grabs you around the waist, and yanks you across the bed. It leaves you pinned beneath him. You don’t really mind.

“Hows that?”

“Mm,” you wiggle your hand. “So-so. Still got a lot of work to do on the manners front.”

You laugh, and Guzma kisses you. It’s slow at first--just a peck. Then another, then you tilt your head and your lips linger a little longer. His hand slides up your side, pushing the shirt you stole off him earlier up to expose your sleep shorts and belly. Both of your hands settle in his hair, rub it between your fingers, scratch your nails over his scalp. That makes him sigh, and he pushes into your mouth with more aggression. 

Sometimes he gets this way. Sometimes for no reason, he comes in strong. You just hold on, like riding a wave (which you still can’t do). His hands roam, they touch your sides, your thighs, your knees. Up, brush along your sides ever-so-lightly, and then palm your breasts with vigor. It leaves you breathless, panting at the ceiling while he leaves bruises on your neck.

Later you’ll grump about hiding them with make-up. Right now you just whisper “yes” to him, and he grunts in approval.

At some point he’s forced to move away. It’s an unspoken agreement then--you wiggle out of his shirt and shorts while he bends back to strip off his sweat pants. It’s easy now, familiar. Once upon a time it was nerve wracking. He’d been all talk but when it came down to it, you were both nervous as all hell.

Now though, you just relax against the sheets and he bends down over you to run his tongue over your collarbone. The little bud of his tongue ring clicks and you giggle.

Once the clothes come off, things slow down. He mutters at you, mumbles into your skin. You laugh, or huff, or swat at him. Sometimes he laughs, sometimes he bites you to make you writhe. Guzma likes that. He likes being on top, being in control. You’ve never pointed that out and you don’t intend to. It makes  _ him _ feel safe. And you know you’re safe with him.

When he settles down between your thighs, hooks your knees over his shoulders, you think of the ocean again. The heart beat of it, the eb and flow. Guzma has enthusiasm  _ and _ skill, licks into you with vigor. You sigh and shift, wrap your ankles together and pet his hair. Now and again his tongue ring catches  _ just right  _ and you’re whining his name. 

He likes that too.

There’s a routine, and he sticks to it. Even when you tell him he doesn’t have to, Guzma does. He’s a man of repetition. He’s got ticks, twitches, he likes schedules and routines. It’s weird to think that about a man like him, but he does.

He does very well within a structure.

When you come it’s bright white and salty air. You think you make a noise--maybe his name, maybe nothing at all--before your ceiling comes into view again. When you look down, he looks smug. His chin is wet. You blush furiously.

“Yeah?”

“Wipe your mouth,” you huff. He rubs his wrist against his mouth dramatically before making a spectacle and wiping his wrist off on the sheet. You groan at him and he just shrugs. 

“Didn’t say  _ where _ . Do I ha--”

“Yes.”

“Moon,” He sits back on his knees and you twist at the hip to dig in the side table for a condom. He never fights you on it, not really. You’re on the pill as it is--which is usually his argument when he gets really, really handsy--but safety first. “Come on, sweetheart.” And now he’s playing the cute card. Guzma leans down to kiss you hip. “Just once?”

“No offense, but we have like thirty kids already. We don’t need more.” You press the foil package against his forehead and he grunts his ascent. “That’s what I thought.”

“Guy can dream.”

“Ew,” you giggle. He sticks his tongue out at you. 

There’s a shuffle of limbs, move around until you’re both comfortable. That first push is always awkward for you, makes you back tense up like you’re waiting for pain. You’re not sure why, but you always do, and he always stops, and you always tell him to keep going.

( _ “Does it hurt?” He asked one night. You were emailing Lillie. He was drawing. _

_  
_ _ “No.” _

_ “You always flinch.” _

_ “I know. I don’t know why.” _

_ “You’d tell me if it hurt?” _

_ “G, chillax yo.” _

_ That made him laugh. _ )

Sometimes he moves fast and hard--hooks his hands beneath your knees so you’re bent in half. Sometimes it’s slow and deep, with your legs around his waist and your foreheads pressed together. Tonight it’s a middle ground. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and leans down to kiss you, hips moving in short, twisting thrusts. You kiss back, taste yourself on his tongue. It’s good.  _ He’s _ good. You’re little, and he isn’t, and it feels incredible. 

When Guzma comes, it’s a whisper. The softest, quietest hush of your name breathed between arrhythmic shuddering. 

You’re little. He’s  _ huge _ . So when he drops onto you entirely, you get the wind knocked out of you. You struggle for a moment, and he pretends to be asleep until things get sticky where they shouldn’t. Eventually you both separate and clean up.

\--

You can hear it in the distance. The soft hush-rush, the heartbeat of the sea. Stars speckle the sky like too many freckles. Or holes in a blanket you’ve pulled over your head. It smells like Ocean, like salt and sand and sun-baked beaches.

And cologne.

You’re looking out the window again. A palm tree waves at you. Guzma mutters something about someone breaking something and starts a dictated email on his Dex. Gently, you press a kiss against his shoulder, where you’ve once again taken up residence.

Guzma kisses the top of your head absentmindedly.


End file.
